


Covet

by merulanoir



Series: How Much White Gull Is Too Much [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Don't copy to another site, I asked my friends for smut prompts and by gods they delivered, Jealousy, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 03:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20039155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: “Is there something between you two?”





	Covet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/gifts).

> Second of the smut prompts. [Tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai) asked for some jealous fucking, and for some reason the characters took one look at my plans and then went into completely different direction.
> 
> Beta by [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale). <3

They step out through the back gate of Orianna’s estate, and the next thing Regis knows is Geralt looming over him, almost touching him, his eyes almost angry but not quite. It’s something else. He breathes like someone trying to control their temper, and Regis stares at him, unable to move. Around them, the city is full of music and summer heat, even this late at night.

Geralt swallows. He opens his mouth, but then closes it. Regis watches him, waits, his own throat suddenly dry. Whatever this is, it’s dangerous, but Regis is too curious to slip away, to escape the loose cage Geralt has made for him with his body.

Geralt’s eyes dart lower, and his face darkens. His gaze is intense enough to burn, and without thinking Regis raises his fingers to the spot they’re fixed on. His skin is feverish, too much wine and summer, and when he pulls his hand away he sees something red has rubbed off on his fingertips.

Lipstick.

Geralt returns his gaze to Regis’ eyes, and he opens his mouth again.

“Why’d she do that?”

Regis shakes his head, not knowing what to say. Geralt may be taller than him, but Regis has never been intimidated by his friend. Not by Geralt, who has gone through so much for Regis, who is there for him even now, after everything that came to pass, and with whom Regis shares a friendship so profound it has been bleeding over to areas unannounced for ages. 

Geralt, who watched with narrowed eyes as Orianna pressed against Regis and trapped him against the table, mouthing at his jawline as she whispered—

Well. It hardly matters now. Regis’ gaze had flicked from Orianna’s flaming red hair to Geralt, and as their eyes met, Regis knew he would have been blushing, were it physically possible for him.

“Is there something between you two?” Geralt takes half a step closer, and Regis blinks himself back to the present moment. Geralt has always commanded his attention with little effort, not that Regis minds. 

“Well, no,” Regis finally says. The lipstick on his fingers burns as he finally remembers to lower his hand. “It’s just a—game.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow again. “A game?” Regis can’t pinpoint the emotion that makes his friend’s face grow so tight, because he has never heard one like that before. Anger, laughter, fear; those Regis can recognize even in his sleep. This is none of them, and Regis burns with a need to know.

“Yes,” Regis says. He never looks away, even though he is very aware of how close they are standing, here in this almost private nook of an alley. “We don’t call it courting, because that would imply there are feelings involved, but she has always delighted in—”

“Is it a game with me too?” Geralt interrupts him. His brows have drawn low, and that same odd tone is stronger now.

Regis hears an almost audible click as his mind finally figures it out.

_ Jealousy. _

Geralt is jealous. Of him, Regis.

It takes him a while to process the revelation, but Geralt’s expression shifts minutely; the witcher is catching up, realizing what he has given away. Before he quite gets there, Regis tilts his chin up and smiles, just a little.

“Not in the same way,” he whispers.

Geralt is and isn’t a game. He is a friend, one who knows Regis better than almost anyone at this point. He is a witcher, and by all intents and purposes he should be Regis’ worst enemy. Instead he has always been undefined, fundamentally resisting Regis’ attempts to categorize him.

In the beginning, Regis wanted to use Geralt; aid a witcher on his impossible quest, earn a semblance of absolution. Then he saw that Geralt was too clever to buy his excuses, and Regis yielded a bit—tolerate him, befriend him, make promises to him. It was a slippery slope, and Regis lost the will to fight against it sometime before they reached Beauclair the first time. It ended at Stygga, where Regis devoted himself to Geralt, and it  _ should  _ have ended there.

When they met again, Geralt had changed. He was older, more rugged and with a darker sense of humor, but what bothered Regis was how things between them never settled. They were friends, then they were once again partners in crime, on an impossible quest, and  _ then  _ when they were free it still refused to be defined; Regis wanted to take Geralt apart, in some way, and find what it was that made the witcher draw his gaze.

Regis was, and is, also a kind being at his core. So had tried to keep a little distance between them. But when Geralt’s eyes lingered on him, Regis answered in kind, because he was just a being with a limited amount of willpower to resist the things he wanted. Things that lacked a name didn’t need to be acknowledged, and so they danced around each other as life settled into something of a routine. Calling what they did  _ flirting  _ felt too banal, somehow, but Regis had not found a better word for it yet.

“Still a game anyway,” Geralt answered, his voice dropping lower, too. He kept looking at Regis like he was trying to decide something. Regis waited, poised for action but still relaxed, back against the sun-warmed stone wall, the whole world in front of him framed by a witcher. The air between them was charging with what had always been present, and Regis tasted it on his tongue. Something was taking shape, still just out of reach.

Geralt moved fast, and Regis found himself pinned against the wall, a thigh pressing between his legs and hands cupping his face with just a touch more force than a human would find comfortable. Geralt’s eyes were bright and still alight with what Regis still struggled to accept as jealousy.

“Fuck that,” Geralt said in a low, rumbling voice. Regis drew in a breath, but he didn’t want to move. Curiosity was lethal, but this was too much to leave be.

“Fuck that,” Geralt repeated. He blew out a breath. “We’ve been doing this fucking dance for ages. But I’m done.”

Regis’ pulse picked up. His body was catching up to whatever was happening, and instead of alarm and flight, his reaction was to melt into the contact, flush with sheer pleasure, and continue staring at the angry, jealous witcher like it was the first time Regis was seeing him. The sensations rattled their way to his core, where they burrowed ever deeper, impossible to get out.

Geralt frowned again, and his hands framing Regis’ face relaxed a bit. Regis realized only then that his own fingers were wrapped tight around Geralt’s wrists. Skin on skin, because Geralt was in short sleeves, and Regis had left his customary gloves back at his crypt.

“I don’t wanna watch you cornered like that,” Geralt said as he pressed still closer. The irony of it wasn’t lost to Regis, but right now he didn’t feel cornered. He felt very safe there.

“I want to be the one who gets to touch you like that. The only one.”

Regis drew in a breath and licked his lips, and then he nodded, because what was there to lose when he felt like this was the thing he had been waiting for all his life? 

There wasn’t any finesse or shyness to what followed: they crashed together.

Geralt’s mouth on him was hot and demanding, and Regis parted his lips without a second thought. Geralt made the same growl as earlier, and Regis gasped into his mouth, hands flying to the witcher’s waist and immediately pulling his shirt out from where it had been tucked in. The skin under his palms was hot and slick, and Geralt grinned into the kiss.

Regis was always aware of the power imbalance between himself and Geralt, but right then the witcher had him completely under his spell. Regis’ head tipped back when Geralt started to kiss his way down, teeth and tongue taking turns, and almost certainly leaving marks. Regis tried to remember how to breathe, but right then Geralt thrust against him, and the thoughts were gone like they were never there.

He could only hang on. There was a distant sort of amazement at his reaction, and how a human could make him so weak, but Regis relished it. He couldn’t find a name for that, but for now it didn’t matter. His hands slid up Geralt’s chest, the shirt catching, and the witcher huffed a laugh. Geralt’s fingers cupped the front of Regis’ pants, eliciting another gasp as they kissed.

“I want to keep this, keep you,” Geralt murmured, and Regis nodded again. He was completely preoccupied with the feeling of the hand massaging him, and how it drove his heart rate higher than a proper fight.

When Geralt yanked his trousers out of the way and wrapped his hand around Regis’ cock, Regis had to muffle the obscene sound that almost burst free; it was too much, and not nearly enough, because this had always been a  _ maybe _ , and now it was rapidly becoming reality, and his mind was struggling to keep up. It was so good, he knew it, even when he had never dared to actively want any of it.

“What were we waiting for?” Regis managed to ask, his voice barely there because Geralt tugged, more careful than his assertive demeanor up until now would have foretold. Regis gripped Geralt’s shoulders, and the witcher met his eyes with a grin.

“Dunno,” Geralt laughed, the words muffled as one kiss mixed with the one that followed. His hand started to move and Regis bit back an honest-to-gods whimper, because it was too real. He was burning up, and Geralt was the one touching him and driving him mad with want, only because he thought Regis was worth desiring, worth staking a claim so no one else might do it.

Regis wanted to reciprocate, but he could only hang on, shaking and panting, and for some reason Geralt seemed to find pleasure in that. His gaze had gone warmer, but the possessive note echoed on around him, and Regis felt it deep in his bones. He was wanted, and he knew that feeling, because he wanted back; he wanted to be the only person who got to touch the witcher, who was allowed to kiss him and make his head hazy with lust.

“You’re just as bad as me,” Geralt said, and when Regis managed a weak glare, he only laughed. “You’re needy and possessive, and we were both too proud to figure this shit out earlier.” His hand did something that involved squeezing and a twist, and it broke Regis.

He came all over Geralt’s hand, gasping for air and clinging to him as his knees threatened to buckle. Geralt made a low, pleased sound, and Regis tried to memorize it through the haze before he realized he was now allowed to want this and hope to hear it again in the future.

Geralt pressed closer once more as Regis came down from the high, and kissed him slower. Regis slid his arms around Geralt’s neck, and even though they were both sweaty and he was starting to feel absolutely filthy, he couldn’t recall ever feeling better. Geralt was there, kissing him and not caring that Regis was what he was, flawed and damaged. They had stopped dancing, and it was time to see where they had landed.

“I meant that,” Geralt said when they finally pulled apart. Regis met his eyes and smiled, and Geralt brushed his lips against his neck. His embrace loosened enough for Regis to pull his trousers back up, and when he made a face at the general mess, the witcher just laughed. Smug bastard, Regis thought, but anything less would have been out of character, and not the man he—well, that much remained to be seen. There were plenty of names Regis could give to them both.

“I didn’t actually say anything, but I’m more than willing to do so now,” Regis said once he was as presentable as he was going to get. Geralt wrinkled his nose, but his smile never fell away. 

“You have me,” Regis said, pressing a softer kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “For what it’s worth.”

Geralt smiled wider, and leaned his forehead against his. “We’re fucking stupid. We could’ve had this for ages now.”

“Mm,” Regis agreed. “Maybe.”

The word hung in the air. Regis breathed in the smell of old stone around them, and the salt-sweat drying on their skin. Everything was suspended on a maybe, but perhaps not for long. They could come up with something better to call it.


End file.
